


The Closer the Star, the Greater the Parallax

by rocksalts



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Castiel's Handprint (Supernatural), Dean Winchester Remembers Hell, First Kiss, First Time, Handprint Kink (Supernatural), Light Angst, M/M, Movie Night, Sex in/on the Impala (Supernatural), Smut, a lot of constellation metaphors, and also i guess.., but DOES he? hm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-07
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-15 21:28:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29690208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rocksalts/pseuds/rocksalts
Summary: “But for an angel…we are intimately connected with the universe at large. Even what lies beyond it. And still, to know the placement of every star in every constellation and galaxy… only God would be able to replicate it perfectly.” Cas stares at him.On the TV, images of galaxies appear, one after the other.“What are you sayin, Cas? That you have a god complex?” Dean tries for a joke, but the look on Cas’ face says he doesn’t find it very funny. To be honest, it had already begun to fall flat on the way out of his mouth.“No,” Cas shakes his head, “it’s just...the way that I see you sometimes.” He pauses to look at Dean fully, eyes searching his. There's an ache in Dean's chest. “I forget you aren’t an entire universe.”orWhen Dean sits down to watch some bullcrap Discovery Channel episode with Cas, he doesn’t expect to actually learn anything. Except, with Cas explaining, he makes an effort to connect the dots.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 47
Kudos: 344





	The Closer the Star, the Greater the Parallax

**Author's Note:**

> big thank you to my beta readers, [cas](https://adhdeancas.tumblr.com), [renu](https://featherasscas.tumblr.com), and [jess](https://dean-studies.tumblr.com) !! <3 (tumblrs linked)
> 
> * * *
> 
> parallax — _the effect whereby the position or direction of an object appears to differ when viewed from different positions, e.g. through the viewfinder and the lens of a camera._

“Cas,” Dean sighs, plopping down with a tub of popcorn in the small space between Cas and the arm of the couch. “Scooch.” Cas moves an inch further from him to make room, barely sparing a glance.

Across from them, the TV is just starting up an episode of one of Cas’ nature shows that he’s enamored with. Dean thinks it probably has something to do with being an angel, but the documentaries about cosmic crap are beginning to get tiresome (at least, Dean makes it seem that way. Really they aren't so bad once you get used to them, but he'll be caught dead before he admits it to anyone, let alone Sam).

“When I said ‘pick something to watch’ I did  _ not _ mean the freaking  _ Discovery _ Channel.” He waves a hand at the TV. A man with white hair is talking about constellations, and a few images of the night sky flash across the screen.

But Cas is transfixed, head tilted to one side—and hell, the guy doesn’t even  _ blink _ . Dean snaps his fingers near his face to get his attention.

“Hey, you listening to me?”

There’s no response, so Dean rolls his eyes and begrudgingly focuses them on the show. He stuffs way too many pieces of popcorn in his mouth and tries to chew, the lights of the flashing images tinting the popcorn—and the rest of the DeanCave—blue and pink and purple. 

Frowning—and wishing Cas had picked something cooler like  _ Tombstone _ (albeit for the 4th time this week)—Dean listens as the guy begins to describe how stars were used to navigate. Something about a grid measuring distance and the space between them.

Cas is shaking his head. “You humans used to believe in a life so simple—that the shiny lights above you were fixed in one spot, that life would stay still for you.”

Dean hums to let Cas know he heard him, but he’s not really sure what to say. As far as he's concerned, the stars  _ are _ fixed, as long as he doesn't look up at them or think too much about how  _ small _ he is on an earth so big and vast. (He’s only been across America, after all. And Scotland once, when he and Sam found Crowley’s bones and almost nixed him then and there.) Dean lets himself get lulled back into the conversation of constellations instead of giving Cas an answer, savoring his buttery popcorn and the saltiness on his lips.

‘ _ That’s the thing _ ,’ a lady says, pointing at a map, ‘ _ I could be looking at a map of the stars plotted out in front of me, but I wouldn’t be able to know their true distance from one another. They could look as if they are inches away from each other, but really, they’re thousands of miles apart _ .’

“No shit, lady,” Dean says. He shoves more kernels in his mouth, “Get to the good stuff.”

That earns him a glare from Cas, who uses the opportunity to steal a handful of popcorn from Dean’s bowl before turning back to the show.

‘ _ Astronomers use reference stars as a gage of distance,’ _ Star Lady explains. Dean mentally compares this to the different diners and motels he and Sam (and to some extent, Cas) frequent when they’re on the road. “ _ Reference stars _ ”—more like temporary familiarity in rooms with doubles and shitty water pressure. It at least helps them distinguish which part of the state they're in at any given time, so he gets the idea.

‘ _ The phenomenon of ‘parallax’ helps us see the world in 3D. You can do an exercise yourself at home. Take a look at your finger.’ _ She holds up her index finger in front of her face, and Dean does the same, glad for the entertainment.

‘ _ Now look at something far away.’ _

Dean looks at Cas, continuing with the rest of the directions by closing one of his eyes.

“I’m not far away, Dean,” Cas’ blurry outline grumbles. Dean closes his other eye and opens the one he just had closed. “I’m right beside you.”

‘ _ This shift that you see is caused by the distance between our two eyes…’ _

Dean drops his hand, pleased to note that Cas still has his attention on him. "Not according to parallax," he says, teasing.

But Cas has got his eyebrows furrowed, in that inquisitive way of his, and Dean smiles cheekily like that’ll ease away the impending questions he’s about to receive. 

It doesn’t. 

All he knows is if it’s about the universe, Cas knows way more about it than he does.

“Dean," Cas says seriously. "Do you have any recollection of when I…?”

The question is left hanging, but Dean can tell that it’s from a place of genuine curiosity. He thinks that if he doesn’t sate it, Cas might just reach out and grab it with a press of two fingers to his forehead.

Well,  _ old _ Cas would, that is.

“When you what?”

“In hell,” Cas winces. It’s barely noticeable—only in the eyes—but Dean still looks away. “When I reconstructed you—your body, I mean. Do you remember that at all?”

Dean remembers hell, though he spends most of his time trying to forget it. It isn’t every waking thought anymore, but most nights it’s every dream—every nightmare. Trying to  _ remember _ isn’t usually something he’s aiming to do, but now that he thinks about it…

“No,” he’s almost surprised to say. “I…don’t, actually.”

He can see the torture clearly if he wants to, the years of cutting into people, the years of trying not to break. He drops the popcorn in his hand back into the bowl, appetite gone. 

Cas nods. “It was a very…painful process. Not long after piecing you together, I removed your memories of it.”

Dean begins to protest but Cas raises a hand to stop him. He looks worn, and Dean thinks of how Cas must have felt bringing about Dean’s rebirth. He shuts his mouth, but wonders what this has to do with galaxies and constellations.

“I asked you first, of course. You wanted it gone.”

“But that would’ve meant forgetting you,” Dean says dumbly, frowning. 

“You didn’t know me,” Cas shrugs. Dean recalls the aftermath of crawling out of the ground all those years ago, of the handprint that is still scarred across his shoulder. Memories of knowing Cas before that...completely lost.

“But that’s not the point. It worked—well, it worked much like parallax. Your soul was—was torn, but your body itself was practically pulverized. Hellhounds start and they just don't stop. It was like fitting together the entire universe back in its place, the way it belonged. But as you know, the universe and its expanse is unknowable to humanity. At least, for now—”

“Until we get the whole  _ Star Trek  _ experience. Right.”

“Yes. Precisely. But for an angel…we are intimately connected with the universe at large. Even what lies beyond it. And still, to know the placement of every star in every constellation and galaxy… only God would be able to replicate it perfectly.” Cas stares at him.

On the TV, images of galaxies appear, one after the other.

“What are you sayin’, Cas? That you have a god complex?” Dean tries for a joke, but the look on Cas’ face says he doesn’t find it very funny. To be honest, it had already begun to fall flat on the way out of his mouth.

“No,” Cas shakes his head, “it’s just...the way that I see you sometimes.” He pauses to look at Dean fully, eyes searching his. There's an ache in Dean's chest. “I forget you aren’t an entire universe.”

Dean’s mouth goes dry, and he blinks a couple of times while his brain tries to come up with a response. It’s hard to wrap his head around how Cas sees him, as not only a human, but a  _ soul— _ one that he’s well acquainted with. And now, apparently...

His body goes stiff.

“I’m just some guy, Cas.” Dean says, ending it there. He fixes his eyes back on the TV and tries to pretend he doesn’t feel them prickling. It’s just the brightness of the screen in the dark, it happens all the time when he hasn’t had enough sleep. Dean relaxes marginally when he sees Cas going back to watching too, out of the corner of his eye.

But Dean is lost, now, and they’re talking about terms he didn’t hear explained to him, and his mind is racing with conjured up images of Cas healing his soul in hell. Putting him back together again, bit by bit. He squirms a little, readjusts how he’s sitting.

_ An entire universe? _ There was just no way. Dean glances at Cas, wonders if he really knows him at all. Maybe angels just don’t know how they sound to people, maybe their metaphors are too wide-scale to understand in human terms. 

If it were Dean, he probably would have gone about comparing it to fixing a car. He’s fixed Baby  _ plenty  _ of times. Sometimes he’d been the one to destroy her in the first place. There probably wasn’t anything in the world that he knew how to do better, except maybe hunting or caring for Sam. Dean knew where each bolt and screw went, what every sound out of her engine meant, and when she needed repairing. But he never fixed what other people would consider “broken,” because she wasn’t broken to him. The rattling when the heat came on could be annoying, sure (especially in the winter). But it was a part of her, and he wouldn’t pry those Legos out of the vents no matter how bad a shape Baby was in. 

And, as far as he knew, Cas hadn’t changed any of his flaws down in Hell. Otherwise, he wouldn’t get angry so often, and maybe he’d try some of Sam’s rabbit food more than once in a while. 

Maybe he wouldn’t look in the mirror and see every person he’s gotten killed, everyone he’s tortured—in Hell or otherwise.

Dean’s thoughts drift to Baby again, trying to get his mind off of things. _ She’ll need an oil change soon _ , he thinks. He adds it to his mental to-do list that he seriously needs to start writing down before he forgets it all. And then, like a punch to the gut, a new revelation:

_Every one of Dean’s atoms has been touched by him._ _Every molecule_. Dean’s breath hitches.

‘ _ Orion, which is Greek for ‘hunter,’ has seventy-seven visible stars.’ _

He lets out a shaky breath, blinking back into reality.

_ ‘When I look at Orion, I see the life and death of stars.’ _ The guy with the white hair from the beginning of the episode says. ‘ _ On the right-hand shoulder of Orion, there’s the red giant Betelgeuse.’ _

“Beetlejuice,” Dean quips, pretending his voice isn’t shaking, “we should watch that some time.”

_ ‘It is fourteen times more massive than the sun. It will eventually become unstable, and it can detonate at any time.’ _

Dean shifts again, trying to get comfortable. His gaze keeps wandering to Cas, the usual sharp lines of his jaw and neck and nose are softer now in the dark.

Absent-mindedly, he scratches at his shoulder.

‘ _ The ancient Egyptians didn’t see Orion as a hunter, however. They saw the constellation as Osiris, the god of rebirth _ .’

The pyramids of Giza are shown, and then the shafts within the pyramids. Dean stretches, and hopes that maybe Sam or Jack will come in to interrupt…whatever is going on here. Because his mind keeps supplying: _ every atom, every hair, every freckle, every organ, every limb. _

“We can watch something else if you’d like,” Cas offers. 

Dean sits up in his seat, his thoughts coming to a point.

“Then why the handprint?” he asks, a little breathless. 

Cas frowns, turning to face him. “What?”

It's not the first time Dean has thought to ask, but with their conversation just a few minutes ago, it finally seems appropriate.

“You pieced me back together, right? Every muscle, tendon, every goddamn hair on my head. Then why,” Dean rolls up his sleeve to expose the scar, “why this?”

Cas is eerily still for a moment, like Dean just caught him red handed. His gaze is latched onto Dean’s scar, as if he could will it away if his gaze were strong enough.

“When you retrieve a soul from hell,” Cas says, clearing his throat, “it becomes...tethered. If you'll remember—when I raised Sam from hell, he had no bond or scar of any kind. That was because his soul, at least most of it, hadn't come up with him.”

Dean raises his eyebrows. “Okay, and?”

Silence.

“Hold on, are you saying what I think you’re saying?” Cas still won’t look at him. Dean’s heart is beating fast. “Cas, is your  _ soul _ tethered to mine?” he presses, urgent.

“Not so much my ‘soul’ as my energy. My…being.” At Dean’s expression, he clarifies, “Yes, I am tethered to you.”

Dean lets his sleeve fall back over the scar and slouches against the couch. Hopelessly, he looks at the stars, trying to make sense of them.

"And you never said anything?"

A pause. His mind supplies:  _ We do share a more profound bond _ .

"I didn't think you'd understand."

_ I wasn't going to mention it. _

Dean's voice turns sharp and he turns to look at him. "You're right. I don't. What does that even  _ mean _ ? That you—can you see my thoughts, or something? Read my feelings?"

Dean’s heart is in his throat, thinking back to everything he's done, everything he's  _ felt _ .

He’d taken Cas at face value when he’d promised all those years ago to not read his thoughts. Not that it mattered, since Cas could read him like an open book, but what if that had all been because he  _ was _ an open book? Because Cas had some secret key that could unlock all of Dean’s thoughts and feelings?

Dean should feel dirty—violated, even. But…

"Do you trust me?" Cas asks.

Dean searches his eyes, which are wide and maybe a little desperate. Cas always does things for a good reason, no matter how fucked up it might seem in the moment. But the problem isn't with  _ this _ Cas, it's with the one that barely knew him, the one that left that scar.

He nods anyways. "I trust you."

Cas reaches a hand towards him, sliding it underneath Dean's sleeve and fitting it against the handprint. Dean can't help the goosebumps that race over his body, or the tingling warmth of Cas' hand on his shoulder.

And then, with a slight  _ zap _ to his scarred skin, Dean’s not in the Bunker anymore.

It’s still dark, but the atmosphere is heavier, somehow, laced with darkness itself. This is hell, he realizes, but some secluded corner of it, away from the torture and enveloped in a skewed sense of safety.

Dean can’t smell anything—not the fire or the flesh he remembers so clearly—except for the remnants of his popcorn if he thinks hard enough. He tries to taste the butteriness of it. He can’t taste anything at all, doesn’t even know where to start, where his mouth is.

Because this is a memory. 

It’s  _ Cas’ _ memory.

And Cas is...different. He has no vessel, but his hands—or whatever functions as hands—are shaping something made of light, shimmering and shifting between a wide array of colors before him.

_ Your soul, _ Cas says, speaking from god knows where.

Dean frowns, despite the wave of calm that hits him at hearing Cas’ voice. That beautiful mass of light and energy—that was  _ him? _

_ Yes. That’s you. _

He wants to look at Cas, at wherever Cas was hiding, trapped inside his vessel.

_ You can’t, _ Cas tells him,  _ Not yet. _

Dean blinks, and a body is taking shape. But it isn’t being molded like a creator with clay. Instead, each fiber of Dean’s being, each atom and molecule, is fitting itself into place one by one. Like grains of sand in an hourglass. Like parallax.  _ Cas _ is doing that. Dean hears his soul cry out.

Pleasure or pain? There doesn’t seem to be a difference. Besides,  _ everyone _ is screaming in this place. Still, Cas flinches—or  _ flinched— _ at the sound.

Cas, the relative size of the Chrysler building; the unwavering angel of the lord…

_ Flinching _ .

Dean blinks again, and his body is practically complete. There are still spaces where his soul shines through the cracks, though. Cas patches him up, everywhere except for where the light shines through the green of his eyes. Past-Dean shudders and groans as Cas seals him.

Then there’s a pause. Dean is reminded, again, that Cas doesn’t  _ have _ hands. Not human ones, anyway.

So the scar on his shoulder…

Cas holds past-Dean’s hand gently, as Dean pants and lolls his head from pain and exhaustion, cradling it like it’s something precious. He takes one pinprick of blood from it, and a slice of his own glowing blue grace.  _ Now _ he molds, works them together into one. Dean’s heartbeat hammers as he watches, as mesmerized by this as Cas was with the stupid  _ Discovery _ show only moments (or was it years?) ago. Cas presses the forming shape into Dean’s shoulder, covering the light coming from it and directly touching his soul. That cry, again, and past-Dean is clutching onto what he can of Cas, gripping tight. Dean has half the mind to feel embarrassed, stomach twisting into knots. This one doesn’t sound so much like pain.

_ It was your ticket out, _ Cas explains.

Dean’s mind, slightly displaced from himself, makes the connection:  _ His reference star. _

_ Yes.  _ Cas sounds pleased.

All at once past-Dean’s body and soul are embraced, and wings unfurl. He hears something like a whisper, and past-Dean nods. Then Dean blinks, one last time, and the memory is gone.

When Dean comes back to himself, sitting in the ratty old couch in the DeanCave, he feels small and out of breath. There are still flashing images on the TV screen, but they don’t register as anything more than colors and garbled words about the stars. His cheeks are wet with tears, he realizes (because his eyelashes are heavy, too), and he lifts the back of his hand to his face to wipe them off.

Cas stops him. He’s looking at Dean intently, almost concerned.

“Are you alright?”

Dean glances around at his surroundings again. Cas’ neck, the coffee table, the knot of Cas’ tie. He nods. “Yeah.”

His heart is still racing, though, and Cas’ hand on his shoulder is charged with the memory of what Dean had just experienced. With the careful molding of their two essences together, the firm last seal over Dean’s colorful soul.

Dean looks up at him.

“I shouldn’t have—“

Dean leans forward and presses their lips together. It happens before his mind can catch up to him, but the feeling of Cas' mouth on his is enough for Dean to accept the slip up and the blood pounding in his ears from what might be embarrassment.

Then he pulls away for a split second, still hovering close enough in Cas’ space to feel his breath. Cas chases after him for more, looking up at him with half-lidded eyes, and Dean makes a strangled sound. He softly pushes Cas back a bit.

They can’t be doing this. Not with what’s currently going on between his legs, and the even worse mess that is his brain right now, firing off whatever signals Cas had short circuited when they kissed.

Cas had kept this from him, this truth that was suddenly something important that Dean feels he should have been clued into a long time ago. Why was it that Cas didn't trust him to know? Was there something deeper behind it, like did Cas  _ know _ that Dean's been harboring these...feelings...for some time now? Is that why he waited until now?

But he still hesitates, both of their chests breathing raggedly, Dean’s fist holding onto Cas’ shirt and tie. He flicks his gaze down once to Cas’ lips again, and finally lets go, standing from the couch.

“Dean…”

He swallows, rubs a hand over his face. “I’m–I’m sorry, man, I uh…I should go.”

“Dean, wait.”

With one last glance at the TV and then to Cas, Dean shakes his head and books it out of the room.

* * *

He’s practically crying when he comes, hard and pleasureful in the safety of his shower, his back pressed to the cool tile.

Dean thought it’d be easier that way, so that A) the water could rid him of his sins immediately, and B) Sam wouldn’t ask him about why he’s putting his bed sheets in the wash for the second time this week.

So maybe Dean had been doomed from the start.

After letting the water run over him until his heart stops hammering and the temperature gets cold, Dean towels off and slips on underwear and pants with shaking hands.

What was  _ wrong _ with him? Only minutes ago he’d been with Cas, having a normal movie night with popcorn and a boring documentary, and suddenly getting a glimpse of one of Cas’— _ their— _ memories. And now…what? He had some sort of kink for god complexes? He's pretty sure he's completely lost the plot, now.

Dean angrily pulls on a t-shirt. It’s an old AC/DC one, and it’s fraying around some of the edges and tight across his shoulders, but Dean’s too preoccupied with pacing his room to care.

The most jarring part of this  _ should _ be that he’d seen his own soul. It should be that he’d gotten a glimpse of Cas’ true form—and that is at least part of the problem. Dean would even accept moping over the fact that Cas had kept this from him until now, because what the hell was the reason for that? Did he not trust Dean? After everything?

But no, instead Dean is hung up on the fact that Cas had branded him, had made him scream and writhe in hell, and left a human-shaped scar on Dean’s body to prove he was there for the ceremony.

It was a  _ soul  _ bond, right? And he had still left Dean branded in a visible, palpable way. Even now the skin was still discolored on the scar, still in the clear shape of a handprint, of the one Cas  _ forged _ from them. And Cas was tied to him just the same.

And how the hell did that even work?

He stops suddenly. He’d never gotten an answer to that… what if Cas  _ knew _ ? Oh god, he was such an idiot. Dean’s heart starts hammering again, thinking of what he’d done in the shower only a few minutes ago. Sure, he'd gotten off on it a little, on the thought that Cas knew what he was doing, but to remember that Cas could  _ actually _ know? 

The knots in his stomach get worse.

Cas might have known about him, about his feelings, ever since they first started to crop up. God, that was  _ years _ ago. If Cas knew, and he still didn't mention it...was that his way of letting Dean down easy? Of telling him that all this was was friendship, and no type of 'bond' could change that? 

And Dean had  _ kissed _ him, for crying out loud. He feels like he might throw up.

He stands in front of his bathroom now, and through the open door he’s got a clear view of himself in the mirror. His face is red and his hair is still wet and drying messily. Dean walks closer, swallowing, and stops again. He raises the sleeve of his t-shirt, eyes roaming over the scar.

It all settles into a deep revelation at the pit of his stomach.

He’s Cas’. Ever since their first meeting in hell, Dean’s been his. And sure, Dean knew that he’d been a goner for a long time now, but this was made physical. It was literally a part of who he was.

The knock on his door makes him jump a few inches in the air. Dean yanks his sleeve back down and pads over, steeling himself in case it’s Cas (for whatever reason), and pulls open the door.

“Hey,” Sam greets, instantly studying his face. Dean only hopes the redness has gone down some by now. “Uh. What’s up with Cas?”

Dean blinks, and suddenly it’s hard to speak.

“What, uh, whaddaya mean?”

Sam shifts his weight, motioning a little with his hand. “I mean, um…well, he was,” he cocks his head, “moping? Feeling sorry for himself? I don’t know, he just...got up all of a sudden and left. Wouldn't say why. I figured you two got into it again.”

Dean sighs and looks away, heart twisting in his chest. “Did you try talking to him?”

Sam laughs, and Dean returns his gaze to him. “Oh, you’re serious,” Sam’s smile falls. “No, Dean,  _ you’re _ usually the one who does that. Is–is everything okay?”

“Everything is fine!”

And with that, he slams the door shut.

“Ooh-kayy,” He hears Sam say from the other side. “I’ll go…deal with it then.”

Dean rests his head against the door for a moment, weighing his options. 

Eventually, he lets it go. He can't see Cas again, not right now. Sam will talk to him, and hopefully all will be forgotten in the morning. He just needs a good night's rest to think things over, and then...then he'll apologize. He'll apologize, and he and Cas can go back to normal. Hell, maybe they'll even rewind and finish watching that galaxy episode or something. 

But just...not tonight.

* * *

He makes it all of thirty minutes before he's barreling out of the garage door in the Impala and into the rain.

Dean worries for a moment about Cas getting sick in this weather before he remembers he's an angel and probably doesn't even know how insane he'd look without an umbrella, much less how a  _ thermometer _ works. In fact, it's  _ stupid _ to be worried, but as Dean goes down the main road in search of Cas it's with a wild pulse and his breath held in his chest.

Sam had tried, and he'd come up short. But to be fair, he hadn't tried very  _ hard _ , in Dean's opinion, and when Dean had inquired he'd just said that Cas had called and told him he was fine and to stop looking.

Unfortunately for Dean, that's not an option. His eyes scour the dark for any sign of Cas, for the flap of a trench coat or a shock of black hair, but it's getting harder to see the longer he looks.

Eventually he has to stop in an empty parking lot to clear his head. 

Despite the rain, Dean opens his window, letting the cold air and hard little rain droplets settle over his skin. He breathes easier like this, calming the remnants of a panic attack that had just barely bubbled over the surface.

Then he closes his eyes, and pulls out his last card.

"Cas," he says, "I'm...I'm sorry. I didn't mean to chase you off. I don't know how this... _ bond _ ...works, but you gotta know I've been looking for you for the past hour and...and it's getting late. I want you to come home." He pauses. "So if you're listening, man, come back. We can fix this. I just...I think we should talk."

He listens to the answer of the pitter patter of the rain against the hood of the Impala, some of it dampening his clothes through the still open window. He sighs, opens his eyes and sets his hand on the break. Before Dean can release it, he hears the flap of wings, and jolts when suddenly Cas is sitting beside him. He lets go of the break.

"Cas."

"Dean," He says, and it's a prayer in itself, Cas' eyes searching his with some deep wanting. Dean only recognizes it because he's seen it in himself in the rearview mirror. 

But wanting for  _ what? _

Cas' clothes are all wet, and Dean wonders where he's been. He wonders this for some time, just staring, until Cas breaks the silence again.

"You...wanted to talk."

That shifts Dean from out of his trance, and he works on rolling up the window. "Yeah," he says, "but to be honest with you, I'm not sure what to say." He looks at Cas. "I'm...sorry."

"For what?"

He's not sure. 

"Uh..." Dean doesn't want to lie, but he clears his throat once to think it over and stall. He settles on, "for scaring you out of the Bunker. I didn't want you to leave, man. I'm sorry." 

Cas lets out a deep exhale at that, and relaxes marginally into his seat. "You didn't scare me."

"But I know it’s my fault. I um," Dean swallows, ignoring him. His voice goes raspy around the edges, remembering the kiss, and worst of all his...complication, afterwards. "I was uh. Feeling..."

Cas looks away knowingly, and Dean goes red.

"Wait, did-did you...?"

Cas' eyes widen, like  _ Dean _ had caught him at something. And then he makes a realization, and he clears his throat.

"I, um. I never explained...no, the bond doesn't work like that. I don't know about any of your...activities, much less your thoughts or feelings. It's more like there's a constant pull towards you. Like gravity."

Dean nods, feeling it working now as he leans towards Cas in his seat. 

"I think I know what you mean," he says.

This time, though, Cas backs away before Dean can think of closing the space. 

There's a beat where Dean stills, the sound of the rain on the car a little louder than it was before. He considers retreating too, taking the car off of break and steering them back home so he can hide in his room again and not have to deal with this.

But their communication issues are what got them here in the first place, so he swallows the dryness of his mouth away and asks, "What?"

Cas lets out a breath, looking a little miserable. "I’m sorry, too.”

Dean frowns.

“I should have told you sooner. And I...didn’t mean to make you cry,” he explains.

Dean licks his lips. “Why  _ didn’t _ you? Tell me sooner, I mean.” 

Cas shrugs, and he looks smaller than usual. 

“I was...afraid. You…” his eyes dart between Dean and the door, “you aren't going to leave again, are you?" Then his mouth presses into a firm line. "Because, if you are..." Cas shakes his head, ending the thought there.

Dean reaches out to Cas, gently tilting his chin to that he's looking at Dean again. "No," he whispers, "the last thing I want to do is leave. And what I want most," he brushes a thumb over Cas' cheek, "is for you to  _ stay _ ."

Just like that, like the magic words that unlock the goddamn door to Moria, Cas leans in to kiss him. 

Dean lets out a whimper at the first touch of their lips moving together, brows knitting with concentration as he tries to get as close to Cas as possible. After a moment, Dean slides his tongue along the seam of Cas' mouth, asking to be let in, and Cas parts his lips for him. 

It's all over then, because now Dean's exploring the universe. It's both as easy as the open road and as extraordinary as mapping constellations up close. Soon, he hopes to know it all like the back of his hand, know the places that make Cas moan and chart them like new types of reference stars. Dean sucks a little on Cas' bottom lip, and Cas' sharp inhale at that earns it a place on the map.

And Cas is  _ warm _ , like a star due to explode. A supernova—that’s what this was, and Dean was coaxing it out of him bit by bit, drawing out gasps from Cas and pulling him closer with the grip that he has on his (still sopping wet) coat. Outside, the rain prevails, getting impossibly harder, and somewhere in the back of Dean's mind he worries that the Impala's getting hailed on.

"It's just rain," Cas says between kisses. Dean searches his eyes.

"I thought you said you couldn't read my mind."

Cas huffs a laugh and rolls his eyes, ducking his head to mouth at Dean's throat. The tip of his nose is cold along Dean's jaw, and his hair brushes wet streaks of rainwater onto his cheek and chin.

"I can't," he says, "I just know you."

Dean's stomach twists at that, remembering the memory Cas had shown him. 'Knowing' Dean was an understatement. Cas  _ understood _ him, which was something else entirely. A bunch of people 'knew' Dean. Sam could tell you Dean's favorite movies, the top five of them ranked and the reasons why. Charlie knew Dean's favorite battle strategies, ones he uses over and over because they never fail, ones that he adapts to fit whatever enemy they're fighting. Hell, even Jack knew some things about him—knew the way Dean liked his socks folded, and how much milk was okay to put in his cereal.

But Cas was the only person to understand him, inside and out. 

Dean takes Cas' face in his hands, moving him to look at Dean again. He can hear his own heartbeat racing, almost in time with the rain on the roof.

"Yeah," Dean says, a finger tracing Cas' lips. "You do."

Cas quirks a small smile and they're kissing again. Dean decides that Cas' wet trench coat needs to come off, so he starts to push it from his shoulders. Cas helps, tugging his own sleeves and tossing the coat onto the dash. When he returns to kiss Dean, Cas is pushing him back so that Dean's nearly lying flat. It's uncomfortable in the front seat, so after a minute of increasingly heated kisses, Dean pushes himself back up. 

"Do you want to..." Dean glances at the back seat. Cas swallows and nods, sitting back to let Dean crawl over the seats and into the back.

Once there, Dean situates himself, lying flat and bending his knees so that his head can still rest on the cushions. When he looks back up at the absence of Cas' warmth, he finds him staring from the passenger seat, fingers gripping onto the seat back so hard that his knuckles are white.

"You okay?" Dean asks, his tone hinting at worry.

Cas breaks his gaze, wide eyes looking anywhere but at Dean, until they land on his own lap. He clears his throat. 

"I've...got..."

Dean raises an eyebrow, words caught in his throat for a second. He licks his lips.

"I think maybe I can help with that," He says. Dean pats the backrest of the seat, "Come here."

Cas moves over the seats—graceful, somehow, which Dean just accepts as an angel thing. Then he's in Dean's space again, knees underneath Dean's parted and bent legs, leaning over him and boxing Dean in. 

He stares at Dean a moment, illuminated a soft blue by what little moonlight there is tonight. Deep shadows line his face, and Dean remembers how he looked just a few hours ago in the light of the TV.

"What?" Dean whispers.

Cas tilts his head, like he thinks it's obvious. 

"You're beautiful."

Dean looks away, but after a moment, his eyes are on Cas' again. Sincere—factual, even. Cas has seen his soul.

He takes Cas' tie and pulls him down so that their noses brush. 

"Show me," he says. 

Dean's breath catches when their lips collide again, almost painful with the force of their emotion. Dean arches up against Cas, still pulling on his tie to get him impossibly closer.

When Cas starts sucking at Dean's throat and jaw, Dean starts undoing the tie and peeling off layers as fast as his hands allow him to. Finished, Cas eases a warm hand beneath Dean's stupidly tight AC/DC shirt. He pulls back to look at Dean in question. He nods.

They make quick work of Dean's shirt and Dean shivers at the loss of it. His breath comes out in a cold tuft of fog.

"Don't worry," Cas says seriously, a little out of breath, "I'll keep you warm." 

Dean believes it. Tentatively, he reaches out to put his hands on Cas' hips. He's staring Cas in the eyes as he undoes his belt, asks for permission by hooking his thumbs on Cas' waistband and pausing a moment.

Cas realizes what he's asking for and pulls down his zipper. It's slow, Dean thinks, but maybe he's just savoring the moment. Cas takes Dean's hands in his and makes Dean grip the waistband and pull down.

Then Cas is shimmying out of his pants until he's left in his underwear. They're tenting at the front, and though Cas seems nervous, he does nothing to hide it. 

"Is this," he looks down at himself, "okay?"

Given the way that Dean's mouth is watering and his pants are getting increasingly tighter by the second, he'd say it's more than okay. He lets Cas know by smoothing a hand over the fabric of Cas' underwear, a chill running down his spine at the warmth and feel of Cas' dick under his palm.

His thumb runs over the head, and Cas braces himself on the seat with one of his hands. 

"That—feels good," he groans. His voice sounds impossibly deep and already on the right side of wrecked. Dean reaches underneath Cas' boxers and takes him in his hand. 

And it's wonderful, seeing Cas' muscles contract with self-restraint, as Dean makes slow motions up and down his cock, thumbing over the head every other stroke. Cas breathes raggedly.

"No one's here but me, Cas," he says. "Let yourself go, sweetheart."

The endearment's a slip up, but it gets through to Cas, who lets out a string of ' _ ah, ah, ah' _ s and thrusts into Dean's fist. Dean's moaning too, simply blissed out off of Cas' pleasure, entranced that he's the one to give it to him. 

"Fuck," Cas groans, forcing himself to still and pushing Dean's hand out of the way. He's frowning down at him. "Why do you still have your pants on?"

Dean doesn't have an answer, just starts unzipping his jeans. When he's about to start pulling them off, Cas stops him. He shifts on the seats so that his face is hovering over Dean's crotch, and Dean's barely breathing as Cas slowly pulls his pants down. Dean lifts his hips so his jeans can be pushed under them, and they pool around his knees. He uses his feet to push the rest of them off, and they join Cas' clothes and his t-shirt on the floor.

They make eye contact, and Dean nods again. Cas wastes no time pulling down his underwear. Dean kicks those off too.

"It's been a long time," he says, touching Dean's dick gently and with reverence. Dean claps a hand on Cas' shoulder to steady himself. Cas looks up at him. "May I...?"

He's not sure what Cas is asking, but the answer is yes. 

"Please, Cas. Touch me."

There's a few strokes that make Dean tilt his head back and close his eyes, so he misses the signs that Cas plans to suck him off until his dick is already in Cas' mouth.

He gasps, vision swimming with the speed at which he looks back down at Cas again. Dean moves his hand from Cas' shoulder to his hair, watching (and feeling) himself get enveloped by the wet warmth of Cas' mouth. He tries not to buck his hips up so that Cas doesn't choke, and instead grips the hair on Cas' head so tight that Cas groans around his length. 

" _ Gah! _ Fuck, Cas," he pants, but loosens his hold. "Where the hell did you learn how to— _ ah! hah... _ — _ do _ this?"

Cas presses his tongue against the head of Dean's dick and he momentarily sees stars. 

"You keep forgetting," Cas says, moving down to kiss the inside of his thighs now. He sucks a hickey and Dean keens. "I know what you like."

Dean tugs a little on Cas' hair, and Cas comes back up until their faces are an inch apart. 

"Then you know," he says, breathless and feeling warm like Cas had promised. "You know how much I want you to fuck me."

Cas stills, eyes hungry, searching. He must find what he's looking for because he smothers his face into the crook of Dean's neck and pushes their bodies together so that Cas is practically laying flat on top of him. He grinds his hips against Dean's sensitive thigh—the one with the fresh hickey—and the fabric of his underwear is the only thing separating Cas' cock from Dean's skin. 

Cas moans, right into Dean's ear, and Dean presses his leg in closer, so now Cas is really just fucking into the space between Dean's pelvis and his hip. Occasionally he feels Cas' dick thrust against his, and Dean gasps and tilts his hips for more friction. All the while Dean lets his hands roam Cas' back, feeling the bare skin of his shoulder blades flex with the force of his thrusts, thinking about big angel wings and how they must start from this point on his vessel. 

He'd like to see them sometime. But for now—

"Take the damn underwear off, Cas."

Cas pauses, shifting his hips up enough for Dean to do it himself, since Cas was busy using his hands and arms to hold himself up. 

As soon as Dean does so, Cas lets his hips fall back to how they were, except now they’re skin to skin. Dean groans. It feels good at first, but he quickly decides they’re going to need some lube to stave off unwanted friction. He grips Cas’ hips tightly, and he stops his movements. Dean reaches over as best he can and fishes out his jeans from the pile of clothes on the floor. From the back pocket he pulls out a condom and a small packet of lube that he’s grateful didn’t explode.

Cas quirks an eyebrow as Dean throws the wallet back onto the floor.

“You carry condoms and,” he plucks the lube out of Dean’s hand, “ _ lube packets _ in your wallet?”

“Yeah,” Dean croaks, and clears his throat.

“Dean.”

“What?” He asks, delaying the inevitable. Cas catches his eyes again and he shrugs, blushing. “Sometimes I, ah. When we’re in motels and stuff, it’s weird, with Sam there. So at night sometimes I drive off somewhere and...” He clears his throat.

“And you jerk off in your car where no one can see you,” Cas finishes for him, tearing off the top of the packet with his teeth. Dean swallows hard.

“Well you don’t exactly make it easy to ignore you,” He defends. Cas pauses.

“You…” he tilts his head, “You...um...because of  _ me? _ ”

Dean is looking at Cas who is positioned on top of him, hair sticking up at odd angles thanks to Dean running his hands through it, and holding a packet of lube that he’d tried warming up with his breath before tearing it open with his teeth.

“Yes, dumbass. You.” 

Cas leans down and kisses him gentle. He finds Dean’s hand and carefully places the open packet of lube in his palm. They break away. Dean glances down at the lube in confusion.

“Put some on your hand.”

He huffs out a laugh. “Cas, that’s not how—”

“Do as I say.”

Dean closes his mouth and pours a little lube on his palm. Cas shifts so that more of his weight is on his knees, and raises his hands to join Dean’s. 

Cas spreads the lube over Dean’s palm, and all of the nerve endings on Dean’s hand feel overly sensitive each time Cas’ fingers rub over them. Dean gasps, and then Cas shapes Dean’s hand into a loose fist.

“Perfect,” he says. With his right index and middle finger pressed together, Cas pushes them into the opening of Dean’s fist. His eyes flit from their hands to Dean’s eyes, and Dean realizes what he’s doing with a choked out moan.

“ _ Cas, fuck, _ ” he says, torn between wanting to watch Cas’ face or where their hands are joined. Cas slowly pulls his fingers almost all the way out before pressing back in. Dean moans again, breathing ragged. 

Then Cas picks up the pace, and Dean almost can’t take the slick rhythmic sound of the lube being squished between their fingers. It’s  _ dirty _ and he can’t get enough. His legs fall open a fraction wider.

“Okay,” he breathes, opening his fist. “I think you’re good.”

“Thank you for your assistance.”

“Oh my god, Cas,” Dean practically begs, “just get inside me already.”

Cas moves back, and Dean feels warm wet fingers circling his entrance. He hikes his knees up a little more.

“As you wish,” Cas says, voice hoarse and gravelly. 

He pushes in, just one finger at first, but Dean writhes with it, shuffling down to get as much of Cas into him as possible. Cas pulls his finger out a bit and pushes it in again. Dean grabs for purchase and grips the back of the seat with his non-sticky hand. 

“You’re,” Cas sighs, “very…”

“Tight?” Dean pants. He tries to meet the thrusts of Cas’ finger. “Yeah it’s— _ uh _ —it’s been a while.”

Cas enters a second finger. “Since you’ve touched yourself?”

His voice is still all husky, and for a moment Dean can’t believe they’re doing this. A few hours ago, they’d been having movie night.  _ Movie night! _ And then, everything fell apart and came together. And...he…

“No,” Dean says, huffing a laugh, though his ears burned a little with embarrassment. “Not—it,  _ ah _ , it hasn’t been long since...since that.  _ Fuck. _ I just—yes! Cas, there.  _ There, there, there, _ ” he pleads. 

Then suddenly the warmth and stretch of Cas’ fingers are gone. Dean whines. 

“Wha—?”

“When?” Cas asks. Dean almost forgot what they’d been talking about, but he feels what remaining blood he has left in his body (that isn’t in his dick) rush to his face. 

“Who cares?” he scoffs. Dean knows one surefire way to get Cas to shut up. Before Cas can think to block him, Dean wraps his hand still covered in lube around Cas’ length and gives it a pull.

Cas gasps, trembling a little with the effort not to fuck into Dean’s fist. He grabs Dean’s wrist, though, and ceases his movements.

“I care,” he says. “If it was because of me, I’d like to know. I don’t want to keep any secrets between us anymore, Dean. But if it wasn’t...me...you can keep that to yourself.” He looks at Dean, and rubs a thumb over Dean’s palm. “Just—be honest.”

Dean’s heart feels like it’s beating harder than when Cas had his fingers up Dean’s ass a few short seconds ago.

“I…” Dean tries. His voice fades, so he tries again. “After I left,” he says. He meets Cas’ eyes, which are on the brink of understanding. With a sudden confidence, Dean tilts his chin up. 

“After we kissed tonight, I went into my room, took my clothes off, and got off in the shower imagining your mouth on my dick. I imagined you knew what I was doing, and I…” he musters up that last bit of courage, “...came all over the bathroom tiles.”

Cas’ breathing is ragged, now. He removes Dean’s hand from where it was still touching his dick. Dread starts worming its way into the pit of Dean’s stomach.

“Cas? Did I—”

He shakes his head, still frozen, but then he’s in motion again all at once. Cas takes the abandoned condom from where it’s been poking at Dean’s side and hurriedly slips it on. Then he takes Dean’s hand again—the one that’s still slick—and fucks into it once, twice, before lining up his cock with Dean’s entrance. Dean can feel the blunt head against him and he keens, shifts a little closer. 

“You’re perfect,” Cas says, and pushes his hips forward, slowly easing himself into Dean. 

Dean moans, choked off at the end by a dry sob at how  _ good _ this feels, how  _ right _ . When his ass is practically flush against Cas’ hips, he feels like this is the stars aligning, like Heaven opening up. 

Cas pulls back out and thrusts in with a grunt, and Dean pulls him down by the back of his neck for a kiss.

But no, not like Heaven at all. Years ago, before meeting Cas, Dean would have compared this to Heaven. But he’d been there, and it’s nothing like this. This is better—this is  _ pure _ . If he had to find a word for it, it was more akin to Purgatory. It felt like all his sins washing off; it felt like blasphemy.

Dean gets the hang of pushing down to meet with Cas’ thrusts, and soon the two of them are moaning and cursing like sailors. Once, when Dean tilts his head back and Cas kisses his neck, Dean sees that the windows are fogged up from the heat they’re creating. He feels sweat at his back and on his chest; small droplets pool on Cas’ stomach. 

Then Cas hits a spot that makes Dean black out for a second, and he grips Cas’ shoulder like a vice.

“ _ Shit. Fuck. _ There, that’s…”

Cas seems to understand. He leans closer to Dean, their chests brushing, and begins driving into him, hitting that spot over and over and over. 

Dean hooks his arms underneath Cas’ armpits and holds on, digging nail marks and scratches along his back. 

“Cas,” he breathes, “Cas.  _ Cas _ .” 

Cas lifts his head from Dean’s shoulder and looks at him. “Are you…?”

“Yeah,” Dean says. 

Cas shifts his weight on his arms a little, freeing up his right hand and slowing down his thrusts. 

“What—?” 

He loses the ability to speak when Cas presses his hand to Dean’s scar. Immediately Dean jerks, not expecting the contact or the sparkling sensations that come with it, and with a shout his stomach muscles contract and he’s coming onto his own stomach and chest.

Cas’ movements are staggering now. Dean presses his hand over Cas’, where it still rests on his shoulder.

“ _ Dean _ ,” he says. Dean pulls him down so their lips meet again. He bites at Cas’ lower lip before settling back and looking into his eyes.

“I’m yours, Cas,” he tells him. “And you’re mine.”

With that, Cas lets out a quiet scream, mouth open and gasping. Dean can feel the condom filling up inside him, and after a few small thrusts Cas collapses on top of him. Dean grunts at the weight, but brushes Cas’ hair back.

“You okay?” 

Cas moves his hand to trace the tattoo on Dean’s chest. 

“More than okay,” his voice rumbles. It’s strange to feel the reverberations in his own chest. “I’m amazing.”

Dean chuckles, and then shifts a little uncomfortably. Cas seems to get the memo and moves so that he can pull out of Dean. He carefully removes the condom and ties it, setting it awkwardly but gently on the floor. 

Then he resumes his earlier position.

With Cas resting on his chest, Dean tilts his head back to look up through the window and at the stars. The rain had stopped a while ago, and the clouds had somewhat subsided, leaving the gap of sky above the parking lot unobstructed and clear. 

He studies them close for a second, watches them twinkle in the distance. Dean feels Cas smooth a hand over the scar on his shoulder, again. 

He thinks he sees Orion. And there, blinking brightly on his shoulder, the red giant Betelgeuse. 

* * *

_ The ride home is quiet, but Dean likes it that way. Just the rumble of the open road, Cas’ hand laced with his, and the rattle of the Legos hiding in the heater.  _

**Author's Note:**

> ahh!! this was my first time publishing smut on here lmao so please let me know how i did !! and if you liked this fic, consider reblogging it on tumblr [here](https://rocksalts.tumblr.com/post/644970808767348736/the-closer-the-star-the-greater-the-parallax) !! <3


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